


Step Right Up

by vanillafluffy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Animal Attack, Athletes, Bad Decisions, Betrayal, Bucky Barnes Being a Bit of a Bastard, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Carnival, Carnival AU, Curtain Fic, Curtain Fic -- literally, Curtains, F/F, F/M, Gambling, Hero Steve, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Money, More balls than brains, Multi, Olympic team fail, Past Sexual Abuse, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Possibly Unrequited Love, Racist Language, Sexual Abuse, Steve Rogers is Mr Popularity, Theft, Thor (2011) - Freeform, Throw canon in a blender and hit 'puree', Trapeze, Trickster Loki (Marvel), UST, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-23 09:46:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14329776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Drama! Romance! Angst!A carnival AU, wherein Steve is a caricature artist, Bucky runs a shooting gallery, Natasha has an unhappy past and Loki performs with tigers. Thor's got hammers. Pietro Maximoff lives! Paramedic Sam Wilson.





	1. The Carnival By the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schweinsty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweinsty/gifts), [untldeathtakeme (LikeRebelDiamonds)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeRebelDiamonds/gifts), [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



The boardwalk of Stark’s Carnival By the Sea echoes with the calls of hucksters inviting visitors to “Step right up!”. The roller coaster clatters on its tracks, and the carousel’s tinny music drowns out the sound of the surf. The California sun makes the water sparkle and puts the carnival-goers in an equally sunny mood.

In a booth on the midway, Steve completes the sketch of the co-ed sitting nearby and sprays it with fixative. She giggles at the caricature with its gigantic eyelashes and exaggerated dimples. She shows it to her waiting friends, who already have their sketches. Well, they were good for forty-five dollars, the young artist thinks with satisfaction as they stroll off.

Temporarily without a customer, Steve looks across the midway to the shooting gallery where his best friend Bucky is demonstrating how easy it is to knock down a series of targets and win a prize. Steve knows the sights on the BB guns are “off”--Bucky’s been doing this a long time, he knows how to compensate for the built-in inaccuracy--but guests will eagerly spend fortunes trying and failing to win the cheap stuffed animals hanging from the awning above the booth. 

“Hey, Stevie, how’s business?” purrs a husky voice, and he looks over to see a familiar face under a tumble of red curls.

It’s Natasha. She’s a carnival MVP: Banner’s assistant in his magic show--Steve still hasn’t figured out how the guy does his remarkable quick-change act--she’s Clint’s target in his William Tell act, and she, Pepper and Wanda put on a great acrobatic display. She smiles at him. “We’ve got a wonderful crowd on the midway, and it’ll probably be even busier tonight.”

Even a tee shirt and jeans can’t disguise how gorgeous she is; it always makes him a little tongue-tied. “I love spring break,” Steve says, dusting charcoal from his hands. “Everybody’s stupid-drunk and happy to spend money.”

Natasha nods, red curls bouncing. How many times has he drawn her? Bucky teases him about it, but it doesn’t matter; Steve’s pretty sure she’s doing Clint. “Spring break,” she agrees. “It’s a fantastic money-maker for us. Then we’ll have a few quiet weeks, then it’ll be Memorial Day weekend….”

Steve smiles back bashfully, already looking forward to the profitable season ahead. Summer is coming. “Yeah…tourist season.”

..


	2. Loki and Tigers and Fish, Oh My

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all, really....

The carnival doesn’t open til 1 p.m. on Sundays, not out of any excess of piety, but because Saturday nights are usually crazy, hangovers abound, and there’s no money in being up and at ‘em at 10 a.m.. On this particular Sunday morning, the sun is shining, the breeze coming in from the water is brisk and chill, and Steve wanders the empty midway with his sketch-pad, the only soul in sight.

Bucky’s shooting gallery is shuttered, the fortune-teller’s tent is draped and dim--Wanda is elsewhere at this hour. Steve treks past the tall pole with the bell atop it. That’s Thor’s pitch; he’s an amiable blond giant who delights in confounding macho men certain that they can ring the bell with one swing of a hammer. He even helpfully supplies different weights of hammers. It’s astonishing how men who can wield the heaviest hammers barely send the marker halfway up the post, while Steve, who knows he’s a lightweight, walloped it on his first (and only) try.

Thor likes to spout a lot of mystic mumbo-jumbo about how only the worthy can achieve this heroic feat, but if there’s a trick to it, Steve hasn’t figured out what it is. Bucky, who manages it about half the time, just rolls his eyes.

There’s a roar from the big top, and Steve walks faster faster. Loki is giving the big cats a workout, and he loves to watch that, since he so rarely catches the show itself. Hopefully, the cats won’t set off his allergies too badly today. Steve quietly enters the tent, standing where he can see the big iron-barred enclosure..

During performances, Loki wears a magnificent costume of green and black and gold, but this morning, he’s casual in a white tee shirt and jeans. It makes him look younger and less severe than he does for paying customers, but the control he has over his tigers is absolute. It’s thrilling to watch as the mighty cats leap from one platform to another in turn like it’s a game of musical chairs. 

Steve’s heart is in his throat. Any of the seven weigh twice as much as the slender trainer; if they wanted to, any of them could annihilate him with one hungry chomp or a single swipe of one of those huge clawed paws….

When the bleachers are filled with people, his voice projects clearly, but now it’s lower, but if anything, more intense. “Kneel!” Loki commands, and one by one, all seven tigers do.

Steve’s pencil moves swiftly, trying to capture the action, the danger--he can’t imagine routinely entering an iron cage full of predators that could shred him for lunch if they wanted to, but Loki not only does it, he does it with panache.

At last, six of the cats have been sent back to their cages in the menagerie. Loki occupies the cage with just one, which sits calmly on its pedestal. As Steve watches, Loki walks over to it, movements calm and deliberate, and scratches beneath its chin. The tigress purrs loudly, eyes half-closed, looking more like a very big, very happy house-cat than a fearsome predator.

“Frigga, my darling,” Loki croons to her, “you’ve been such a good girl today…you are my best girl, yes, my very best, you are…Rogers, put down that pad and come in here.”

Busy trying to illustrate the moment of intimacy between man and beast, it takes Steve a moment to realize that he’s being addressed.

He knows where the emergency door is, they all do, in case there’s some catastrophe during a show and Loki needs to be gotten to in a hurry. “Are you sure…?”

“Get in here.” Loki doesn’t raise his voice; the big cat, who by this point has her chin resting on his shoulder, doesn’t so much as twitch, but Steve feels the command viscerally. 

He opens the door. Enters. Closes it behind him--no chance of the tiger escaping. He swallows hard.

“Come over here, Rogers. She won’t bite. Not at random, anyway.”

Steve stands less than arm’s length from the tiger, fascinated despite himself. He never goes into the menagerie, because his allergies give him hell, so he’s never seen any of the tigers close up. 

Frigga is an orange Bengal tiger, and Steve stares at her, marveling at the shading of her fur, the way the orange and black is orange and white in places, especially on her face and chest. Nature has painted her in a way that makes her look wise and benevolent, ridiculous thought.

Loki catches Steve’s hand and guides it to Frigga’s chest. “She likes being scratched there.”

It’s not like a big plush toy…there’s a coarser texture to the dense fur, it’s hotter than he imagined, vibrating slightly beneath his hand as the large cat purrs. Loki’s fingers were cool on his wrist…Steve shivers a little as he glances at Loki. The trainer nonchalantly scratches behind Frigga’s ears. 

Loki stands nearly a head taller than Steve, his lean frame unimposing in street clothes but there’s still an intense focus about him. Here, even Frigga, up close, is less scary than advertised.

Steve is actually enjoying this moment of great daring, when he feels it. There’s nothing he can do but half-turn away and bury his face in the crook of the arm that isn’t scratching the tiger’s chest.

He sneezes explosively. “Sorry, allergies,” he tries to apologize--and sneezes again.

Frigga has what Steve can only call a peculiar expression on her face, then she sneezes and shakes her head.

Steve chuckles, although Loki looks dumbfounded. Then Steve sneezes again, and Frigga mimics him. She looks up at Loki, and makes a little noise in her throat that sounds questioning. Then she opens her mouth and swipes his face with her big, pink tongue.

Loki laughs, not one bit fazed by the big teeth so close to him. “Good girl. Off to bed now! Go on!” With a sigh, the tigress springs lithely from her perch and lopes down the tunnel to the menagerie. Loki turns back to Steve. “If you’ve actually taught her to sneeze on cue, it’ll certainly add some humor to the act. Whoever heard of a sneezing tiger?!”

"Just as long as you don't have your head in her mouth at the time!"

At the trainer’s instigation, Steve goes back to the menagerie with him, watching as the tigers are fed, and sure enough, every time he sneezes, Frigga sneezes. Every time she does so, Loki rewards her with a tidbit of fish. “She’s the only one who has a taste for it,” Loki confides. “The rest love their bacon.” 

“How did you get into wild animal training?” Steve wants to know as he reaches for his handkerchief. “Is the rest of your family in the circus, too?”

”That’s a bit of a story…I’ve always loved animals. Growing up, I’d pet-sit for our neighbors, volunteer at the local animal shelter or rescue group, anything that brought me into contact with animals. I’ve ridden into the Grand Canyon, swum with dolphins, even seen penguins in the wild.

“When I went to college, I studied zoology--I wanted to do something to make the Earth a better place for animals, although I kept changing my mind about how and which animals, because the truth is, there are so many in trouble.” Loki sighs.

“Can we go get my sketchbook?” Steve asks diffidently, and they make their way back out to the big top. 

Loki settles himself on one of the bleachers, and while Steve resumes his drawing, he picks up his tale. “I was in my last term of college, on spring break in Florida, studying a town with a colony of escaped parrots and other jungle birds, when I got an urgent call from my dad. He’s in real estate, and one of his most posh properties in South Florida had what someone told him was a big cat problem. So, naturally, Dad thought of me.” The irony in his tone isn’t lost on Steve.

“The wording was a bit ambiguous, don’t you think? Because I drove for five hours thinking that some animal hoarder had left behind a hundred cats, which would’ve been bad enough. Imagine my surprise when I opened the front door, and a full-grown tiger came down the hall right at me.”

Steve’s pencil stills. “What did you do?”

“First, I closed the door. Then I got back in the car and drove to the nearest fishmonger’s shop and bought thirty-five pounds of tilapia. When I went back, I kept tossing chunks of fish until I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be on the menu. By the time she’d gobbled down the first fifteen pounds or so, she was taking it from my hand, and that was how I met Frigga.”

“And the others?”

“It turned out she was in the family way. Honestly, if I ever meet the idiot who owned her and abandoned her--!” Loki’s dark brows draw together, and his expression is severe. “Anyway, the long and the short of it is, I didn’t go back to school. I stayed in the house for the next few months, helped Frigga with the delivery when the time came, and the cubs have known me their entire lives.

“Fortunately, Florida is a pretty good place to have a problem like that--there are a surprising amount of resources. Between zoos and theme parks and Ringling, there were plenty of experts I could ask about feeding and training, shots, permits--there are a couple of big cat rescues who would have taken them off my hands,” his voice is scornful, “but I couldn’t leave Frigga or the cubs. So here we are.”

He leans over and admires Steve’s sketch, which shows Frigga leaning against Loki, her eyes narrowed blissfully as his fingers run through her thick fur. “You’re good. Why do you waste your talent doodling pictures of drunken tourists?”

“Careers in art take training, which means money, which I don’t have.” Meanwhile, there’s a gap in Loki’s story. Steve raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean, ‘Here we are’? That was Florida. We’re in California. And it’s not like Stark’s is a well-known show.”

“Do you know Eric, the head mechanic?”

“I’ve seen him around,” Steve says cautiously, “but I wouldn’t say I know him. Big, blond, sixty-ish? Kind of an accent?”

“That’s right. He’s my godfather. He used to be a physics professor at a major university, then one day he just walked out, said he was tired of teaching theory to jackasses and he was going to spend the rest of his life applying physics, and he seems happier here than I’ve ever seen him. I talked to him, he talked to Stark--and Stark knows he needs talent to keep this place afloat. The midway alone isn’t going to do it. No offense, Rogers, but that’s the way it is.”

“You could call me Steve. I mean, since I know your life story and everything.”

There’s that laugh again. “Not even close, Rogers. Not even close.”

…


	3. The Sock on the Doorknob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Natasha share a bottle of wine on a rainy night.

The midway has finally quieted down. All the rubes are gone, back to their mundane lives, and Steve Rogers sighs with relief as he trudges across the lot to where the trailers are parked. The wind blowing in from the Pacific is picking up, and it feels like rain. Maybe, if it rains, they’ll have a quiet day tomorrow.

It’s good that they’re busy at the Carnival By the Sea, he tells himself. Steve is glad to be making money, enough that he can sock some away so that maybe he can get his own trailer. Not that he isn’t grateful to Bucky for sharing with him, he is, but there are some drawbacks….

Like tonight. Like finding a sock on the doorknob when all he wants is to nuke a bowl of soup and sleep for ten hours or so. He hears the rumble of Bucky’s voice, followed by a girlish giggle. 

Steve feels the first wet spatters against his skin. Great. Nothing like a good soaking to give him pneumonia. He turns around, and almost runs into Natasha. 

“Hey, sailor!” she hails him. “I was going to share,” she says archly with a look at the white athletic sock drooping from the doorknob, “but it looks your pal found something more interesting to do than a bottle of plonk.” She holds up the wine. “Let’s find someplace to work on this, shall we?”

“Sure,” Steve manages not to choke on the single syllable, although excitement fizzes through his veins. Natasha wants to go drinking. With him. Alone, which could lead to…things.

His pitch is the only place he can think of where they’ll stay dry and won’t be disturbed. He unfastens the canvas flap on one side of the booth proclaiming **Sketches By Steve** and eels his way in, reaching for the toggle that controls the lights. He tries to get just enough light for romantic ambiance; the strings of twinkle lights should do….

Natasha shimmies in behind him and looks around the eight-by-twelve space. Sample drawings paper the walls, a rack holds props and dress-up items, a heap of pillows and a blanket in one corner. There’s a wood floor, too, cheap plywood over pallets, but raised enough that the place won’t flood.

“Um, I don’t have any glasses,” Steve says awkwardly. “I guess I could run over to the grease-wagon--”

Natasha has unscrewed the cap of the bottle and delicately takes a swig. “No need. Don’t worry, I haven’t got any cooties. Believe me, I’ve been tested.”

The rain is coming down in earnest now, pattering against the canvas roof. The wind whistles around the tent flap, providing a little fresh air, although the space is still warm and stuffy.

The wine burns going down. The second gulp is a little less harsh, and by the third, Steve feels a knot of tension at the back of his neck dissolve. It probably helps that he hasn’t had anything to eat in eight or nine hours--he isn’t sure exactly what time it is, probably one a.m.or so….

When Natasha settles herself amid the pillows, he joins her, so she won’t have to stretch to pass him the bottle. It’s surprisingly comfortable, especially after perching on his stool all day.

“This is nice.” Natasha stretches and Steve is aware of how near she is…a scent of cinnamon and roses, spicy and sweet….

“It helps a lot with kids, especially the little ones. They don’t want to sit still on the stool like the grown-ups do, but put them down there and give them a toy, and presto, they’re quiet. Or a lot of times, if I’m drawing Mama, and the kid has some quiet time for for fifteen minutes or so, boom, he’s out like a light and Mama can take him home without him fussing.”

She chuckles. “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time since I’ve known you.”

He knows he’s been babbling. It’s nerves. And wine. “I like what I do.”

“I’ve seen your work. You’re good.” She waves a hand at the walls. “Not this stuff. Bucky showed me your notebooks.”

Oh god, his sketchbooks. And how many of the pictures are of her? He’s aghast, as if he’s just been pantsed in front of the entire big top. The hell with it. 

“Then you know I--” He tries to kiss her, just leans over and goes for it, except he ends up face down in a nest of pillows. 

When he rights himself, Natasha is looking at him, sad face, she shouldn’t look so sad, ever….

“It’s Clint isn’t it?” he asks, the wine churning in his guts.

“No, Clint and I are roommates and friends; he’s very happy to spend his spare time with Phil the prop master. And no, before you ask, it’s not Bruce, either. Or Bucky, or anyone else on the lot. Why does it have to be me and _any_ body? Why?” He’s upset her, and that’s the last thing he wanted to do. Her face softens. “Steve, I like you--as a friend. I just don’t feel..that way…about you, or anyone else.”

Hot with shame, he takes another pull from the bottle. Natasha reaches for it, and he passes it to her. She puts the cap back on. “I think you’ve had enough,” she says gently. “Look, I think you’re a really sweet guy….”

“Just not enough of a man for you?” Only common sense keeps him from bolting from the tent into the downpour outside. Getting drenched and probably sick won’t help anything.

“More like too much of one.” Her face, usually so animated, is bleak. “I ran away from home when I was fourteen. My parents were both alcoholics--they got drunk and fought all the time, and I thought I could take care of myself.

“Well, I couldn’t. I fell for this guy…Brock treated me really nice at first, bought me fancy clothes, made me feel like I was grown-up.” She gives a bitter chuckle. “I let him fuck me, because I was all grown up, and that was part of being a grown-up, right? A big, special importnat part…and then he brought a bunch of his ‘friends’ around, and it wasn’t ‘special’ and my consent didn’t matter. He let them do whatever they wanted with me, and after that, I did whatever he told me, with whoever he told me.” Her voice is unsteady, and Steve covers her hand with his, wanting to comfort her but with no idea how.

“That went on for almost four years. I finally got a chance to run, and I took it. One of the johns left a bank deposit envelope behind with a few thousand in cash. I grabbed it, got myself a bus ticket, and got the fuck out of Dodge. I bumped into a traveling carnival out in the sticks, and that’s where I met Clint. I needed a friend who wouldn’t try anything with me, and he needed a beard. It’s worked out pretty good for both of us.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve breathes. It’s terrible, it’s tragic, it explains her razor-edged sense of humor and her air of secrecy. “I won’t tell anybody. Scout’s honor.”

“It’s okay.” It’s her turn to pat his hand. “I’m happy, I love my life here. I just don’t want you to break your heart over me, and honestly, I know it’s the oldest cliche there is, but it really isn’t you--it’s me.”

He nods, feeling like he understands perfectly. She’s been pawed enough that _of course_ she doesn’t want anybody else messing with her, even though he’d be a perfect gentleman…but she likes him enough to confide in him, that’s something….

The rain continues its monotinous drumming on the canvas. The dimly-lit tent is cozy, they’re both quiet and relaxed by the wine. They’re not cuddling, but their heads share the same pillow. 

“You’re a good guy, Steve,” Natasha says as he lies there, floating in a pleasant haze of intoxication. “I hope you find somebody who appreciates that. And I don’t mean Bucky. He’s not a bad guy, but you can do better.”

That brings him to at least partial sobriety. “Me and Bucky?! I don’t--we’re not--!” 

She shrugs. “You guys are shacked up, and Bucky would fuck anything. But sweetie, sex isn’t the same as love, and love isn’t about body parts. Maybe that didn’t quite come out right.” She stares up at the twinkle-lights. “I mean…if you like somebody, don’t rule them out as The One just because of what’s between their legs. Because if you do, you could miss out on something really good.” 

“Do you still believe in The One?” he asks dubiously, because it seems so unlikely after what she shared earlier.

“I’d like to. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but some day. And I for sure think there’s someone out there for you…and it’s not me.”

“Okay…so we’re friends….” He’s settled back against the pillows, much too comfortable.

Next to him, she shifts a little, and he feels the gentle touch of her lips against his forehead. “Friends,” she agrees. “and you’re a pretty good drinking buddy, too.”

The next thing Steve knows, he’s under fire. He wakes up with a start, looking around at the familiar surroundings--which, familiar as they are, aren’t anyplace he’s used to waking up. The loud pop! ting! pop! ting! pop! ting! continues, and he recognizes the sound of the air rifles at the shooting gallery.

Oh God, his head. What time is it? What day is it? He lurches to his feet. Natasha is gone--there’s no sign of the bottle either, which is too bad, he could use some hair of the dog…

He staggers from the dark tent into glaring sunshine on the midway. Mud squelches beneath his sneakers. No crowd, he’s relieved to see. He isn’t late opening up--that would cost him a fine. 

It looks like Eric is tinkering with the gallery’s mechanical ducks. Bucky stands at the counter with an air rifle over his shoulder like a big-game hunter and a cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth. When Bucky spots him, he whoops and catcalls, and Steve is forced to do the walk of shame past him and back toward where the trailers are parked. 

According to the clock in the kitchenette, Steve has forty minutes before the gate opens to eat and make himself presentable. First, aspirin. Nuke some ramen while he dashes into the tiny bathroom dragging a wet comb through his hair. Does he need to shave today? No, he decides, but a fast shower is imperative, and oh, bliss! clean clothes.

He makes it back to the booth with six whole minutes to spare. 

Thankfully, no one who comes through the gate at opening is in desperate need of a caricature or portrait, because ramen or no ramen, Steve still feels craptastic. It takes two bottles of water and an orange before his light-headedness goes away.

Natasha drifts past after the matinee, wearing sunglasses. He doesn’t blame her. If he didn’t need to see to be able to draw, he’d be wearing dark glasses, too. He’s not sure if she’s looking his way or not, but he gives a little wave just in case, because after all, they’re friends.

She waves back, and smiles. Friends.

…


	4. The Shooting Gallery

The fool has more money than sense, which could be said for most of the marks on the midway. Bucky is perfectly willing to egg him on, to call his masculinity into question, stroke his ego by admiring his shooting prowess--whatever it takes to keep those dollar bills coming. He trying to win that big framed Harley-Davidson mirror, and so far, he’s spent roughly five times what it cost Bucky, trying to get it. 

The blond kid keeps shooting. Bucky keeps refilling the rifle he’s chosen with BBs. He’s not a child-kid--he’s 20 or so--but Bucky is closer to 30 than 20. That look of eager innocence is long gone. 

Look at him. He’s been _standing there_ for a half-hour, popping away at the mechanical targets, hitting them most of the time, handing over $3 a clip like his pockets are infinitely deep. Apparently, nothing matters but getting that stupid mirror. There had been two of them--black and white, Mutt and Jeff--but the black kid got bored real quick and wandered off down the midway. 

They're having a slow day, and nobody else seems inclined to throw stacks of money at him, so Bucky masters the vague irritation he feels toward the mark and keeps smiling.

It’s a warm June afternoon, clear and sunny. Bucky has on his trademark straw cowboy hat (courtesy of Walmart), which is actually useful for keeping the glare out of his eyes. His boot-cut jeans and battered cowboy boots add to his “Buckaroo” persona, likewise his ancient “Wanted Dead or Alive” tee shirt. 

The little kids totally believe him when he says his name is Buckaroo, Bucky for short. The co-eds giggle, especially when he slyly asks if they’d like to go for a ride. The guys, who are usually the real marks, the ones most likely to step up and pay out cash money to shoot--well, the sober ones nod and chuckle, knowing better. The drunks that believe that also believe they can win these fabulous (crappy) prizes with just a few (hundred/thousand) lucky shots. High drama ensues when some blitzed clown decides to win a giant stuffed panda for his girlfriend.

Occasionally, when he’s had a couple drinks himself, he’ll divulge the truth. His middle name is Buchanan. When he was a kid, he’d written his whole name on the inside cover of one of his books, “James Buchanan Barnes”--somebody couldn’t read his writing. “What? Buck-an-an? Buck-canon?” He’d pronounced it correctly, but the somebody, who happened to be Steve, said, “I like Buckcanon better. Bucky would be a good nickname. It sounds like a cowboy.” Somehow, he’d gone from being Jimmy to being Bucky ever since. And now, he’s making a living at it.

This wasn’t how he’d planned to make a living, corralling suckers at Stark’s Carnival-By-the-Sea--but he made it back from Iraq alive and here he is. 

Keeping the thin smile on his face with an effort, Bucky considers just _giving_ the mirror to the punk. He shifts his weight, but his leg still hurts. He wants to go for a walk to stretch it--to his trailer to take a piss, refill his flask--this job would drive anyone to drink. There’s a burger with his name on it at the grease wagon, extra mayo, extra tomatoes. Anything to not have to look at this dumb kid who’s been talking about how he’s ‘fixing to’ enlist and how he’s really looking forward to seeing some ‘action’.

Stupid fucker. He’s probably spent the last couple years playing ‘Call of Duty’ in his mama’s basement and he thinks that qualifies him as a soldier. Bucky grimaces.

“Ha!” the blond guy exclaims. What do you know? He’s actually managed to hit all twenty targets.

Bucky limps over and grabs the mirror. It cost him $4.70 with sales tax--this idiot has just spent something like $39 to win it. “Here you go, sport. For all the good it’ll do you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The guy is affronted, but Bucky has hit the point where his give-a-damn’s busted.

“You’re talking about signing up…what, you think you’re going to take that thing with you to basic? Nope! It’s not like you’re gonna have a place to hang it in barracks. You ship out, not much point in bringing something like that--all that’s gonna do if you’re stuck in the middle of Sand Dune Central is give your enemies a real nice, shiny target to shoot at.”

“So I’ll leave it at home in my room,” he says, confirming Bucky’s suspicion that the kid still lives with Mom and Dad.

“Yeah, you do that. And when you come home, after doing things you never imagined, you’re not gonna want to look too closely at your own face!” The last few sips of bourbon at the bottom of his styrofoam cup of cola burn going down. “Because you’re the guy who shot some raghead who was out taking a piss behind your objective and blew half his head off. You’re the guy who took out a whole nest of them with one pineapple, the same way your curve ball used to strike out batters. You’re the guy who’s told some poor bastard he’s going to be okay, just look at you, eyes here! when his guts are hanging out and he wants to believe you, but you can smell the blood and shit and you know he’s going to die! And you do that two, six, ten times and you start wishing it was you, just so it would be over with!”

The mark backs up, almost hugging the mirror, looking at Bucky like he’s a crazy man. “You’re shittin’ me. They got medics and stuff. That ain’t gonna happen to me!”

A bitter laugh starts in Bucky’s throat. There’s not enough bourbon in the world to dull this pain. “No,” he agrees, saying it on thick. “That’s not gonna happen to _you!_ You’re _special!_ You’re a strapping, six-foot tall tower of power. Nothing can hurt _you!_ ” 

He leans back against the counter and yanks on his left boot. It comes off. So does Bucky’s prosthetic leg. He waves it in the kid’s face, the cup that fits over his stump, the empty bottom of his pants leg flopping. “I said the same thing, dumb-ass. But then, an IED between Baghdad and who-the-fuck-cares came along, and guess what? I found out I was meat, just like the rest of them. Just like _you._ ”

The kid is shaking his head, wide-eyed, maybe a little daunted. Good. Maybe Bucky’s talked some sense into him. 

Bucky hops over to the high stool he keeps around for the small fry and sits, faced with putting the damn thing back on now, at least long enough to get back to the trailer. What was he thinking, hauling it off like this? His stump was already sore; it’s probably swollen and it’s going to be a bitch to get back on. Welcome to his new normal….

The other kid shows up, and the mark shows off his prize. “I got it!” he brags. “It took me a while, but I got it. _Because I don’t just give up._ ” That with a side-long look at Bucky to make sure he gets the message. “I’m gonna go stash it in the car, then we can try the roller coaster.”

“Hey,” Bucky says to the friend after his mark takes off. “I tried to talk him out of enlisting--” He pats the scarred nub that ends a few inches below his knee. “Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

“I’m going with him. To keep an eye on him.”

Swell. Another one. “That’s a bad idea.”

“That’s what friends do.” He turns away and trots off after his friend, calling, “Hey, Riley! Wait up!”

..


	5. Hammer Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki plays a prank on Thor, with Steve's help.

Loki puts him up to it. “It’s a harmless prank,” he coaxes Steve. “The look on Thor’s face will be priceless.”

Thor is at his pitch, exhorting the crowd to “Grab a hammer and take a swing, just one dollar!. Only the mightiest heroes can ring the bell!” He certainly looks the part: He’s tall and bare-chested, unself-conscious in leggings tucked into boots (with a codpiece at the boss’s insistence). His shoulder-length blond hair ripples in the salt-laden breeze coming in from the nearby Pacific. Loki refers to it as the ‘Fabio on a budget’ look.

The bell at the top of the pole is labeled ‘Hero of Asgard’. Lesser strikes confer titles such as “Superman’, ‘He-Man’, ‘Wonder Woman’, ‘Conan’, ‘Rambo’, ‘Nice try, Dad’ and at the bottom, ‘Sissy’. It’s sexist as hell, but Thor makes a decent living off macho jocks, so why not?

There’s a switch over to one side of the pitch--Loki has shown him where it is--that will ‘lock’ the platform when it’s struck so the weight won’t reach the bell. Steve saunters in that direction, pauses for just a moment, ostensibly to check his phone, but a quick nudge with his foot and the deed is done.

“Let me show you how easy it is!” Thor probably has a way of telling the hammers apart, the same as Bucky and his guns at the shooting gallery. He raises his chosen hammer over his head and brings it down in a demonstration of his might.

Hitting the locked platform, the hammer jumps out of his grip, the weight doesn’t even rise to the level of ‘Sissy’, and the expression of stunned disbelief on Thor’s face is indeed worth seeing.

Loki, who has stationed himself front and center so his brother can’t possibly blame him for this, calls out, “Performance issues? Not uncommon….”

The crowd chuckles. Thor eyes his brother, but he’s enough of a showman to plaster a smile onto his face. “That’s what happens when I don’t eat my Wheaties for breakfast!” he jokes. He glances toward the location of the concealed switch, but Steve has joined the crowd, looking--he hopes--virtuous.

Gradually, the onlookers disperse.

“Perhaps you should have Erik look at that?” Loki suggests innocently. He saunters forward and extends a $20 bill.

“What’s this for?” Thor is suspicious.

“The rubes that got away.”

A few minutes later, Loki joins Steve at his pitch, the caricature booth, and they share a laugh at Thor’s befuddlement. “Well done!” the big cat tamer chuckles. “I’m not sure when I last saw my dear brother so surprised.”

Steve grins. “The best part is, I went back and unlocked it while he was talking to you. He’ll never be able to figure out what happened!”

…


	6. Bad Kitty!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's trouble during the big cat show. Fortunately, Steve has unsuspected stores of courage.

Lately, Steve has gotten into the habit of putting up the sign that says, _”Let’s All Go to the Big Top!”_ , closing his pitch and actually going to see the show. He’s cultivated a variety of reasons, in case he has to justify himself: It drums up interest in his fellow performers, there’s usually not a ton of business while the show is going on, and what’s the point of being with a carnival if you don’t get to check out the acts sometimes? Oh, and it offers him a chance to do sketches of those acts, some of which he’s had luck selling to the crowds who drift past his pitch…they don’t necessarily want a portrait, but a drawing of the pretty acrobats? Sure. All of those.

A lot of those sketches feature the tigers. Why not? It’s a dramatic act, and he’s gotten good at telling them apart, even if the rubes in the audience can’t. He especially gets a kick out of the sneezing tiger trick that Frigga has learned--the audience loves that one!--and he feels tickled every time he sees it, since he’d inadvertently taught it to her.

Loki’s act is going on as usual. Six of the tigers have loped down the runway back to their enclosure in the menagerie, when things go absolutely, catastrophically pear-shaped. 

Odin, the grumpiest, grouchiest tiger of the bunch, decides he doesn’t want to go to bed yet. A fully grown Bengal tiger having a tantrum is a very bad thing. With one leap, he knocks Loki down, rolling the hapless trainer beneath his paws like a rag doll.

The gallery gasps, reasonably sure this isn’t scripted--when Steve acts. 

Steve bolts for the ‘rescue door’, set on the outside of the ring for emergencies like this. There are supposed to be attendants in the menagerie for this kind of thing--where the hell are they? He has just enough presence of mind to shut it behind him…never mind that he’s just shut himself in with one of the biggest predators on earth. Loki needs help!

“Hey!” he bellows. The tiger is standing over Loki, who’s face-down in the sawdust, motionless. It looks at him, probably wondering how many bites it’ll take to eat him. Odin snarls, and without thinking, Steve slaps the tiger across the face with his sketchpad. “Bad kitty!” he hollers. “Go to your bed!” 

It’s the command Loki finishes the act with. Odin looks at Steve as if he’s thinking about it for a moment, but Steve’s too angry to back down. After a moment, Odin turns around and saunters toward the runway.

As Odin’s orange and black rump disappears from sight, Loki stands up and dusts himself off. His smile looks like it’s been stapled on, but he takes Steve’s hand and holds it up like a prize-fighter. “My hero!” he proclaims. Out of the corner of his mouth, he mutters, “Bow!”

Following Loki’s lead, Steve does.

Then they make their way down the runway, trusting that the attendants have penned the tigers accordingly. Loki is pale and limping slightly. Steve can see where his black shirt and the skin under it have been torn.

Midway down the runway, they’re joined by Erik Selvig, who’s jumped down seemingly from the ceiling. “I was coming to your rescue when that Odin, he came running right toward me, lickety-split, so I got out of his way!” he explains. “How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m pretty sure he cracked a couple ribs,” Loki says through gritted teeth. “And I’m scratched up--but I think I’ll live, thanks to Steve.”

Someone’s called Bruce Banner--he has a medical background of some kind--they must be reshuffling the acts; Steve can hear the overture that precedes Clint’s Trick Shot Revue. After looking at his wounds, Bruce agrees with Loki’s assessment, arranging to patch him up back at Loki’s trailer after his act is over. 

Meanwhile, Loki refuses to just go to his trailer, insisting that it’s important that he not neglect the cats’ usual post-show regimen of treats (for everyone except Odin). 

Finally, with Steve in tow like an anxious Border Collie, they go out to the lot..

Steve hasn’t been inside before. The exterior has murals of tigers on it, but the interior is soothing in tones of sage green and ivory. The outside advertises the showman, the inside is calm and uncluttered. Aside from scrapbooks on a shelf, there’s no sign that a performer lives there.

Loki sinks down onto one of the banquettes with a sigh. Gingerly, he peels off the ruined shirt. “Damn it,” he mutters. “That’s eight-five dollars, shot.”

“Cheaper than a funeral,” Steve observes.

“And you--what were you thinking?” Loki’s green eyes blaze. “Are you out of your mind, going up against a full-grown tiger with a bloody notebook?!”

“No one was coming!” Steve defends himself. “And I was afraid--” He stops, all the emotions he hadn’t had time for in that terrifying moment breaching the surface. He can’t stop the tear than streaks down his cheek.

“I was afraid, too,” Loki murmurs, his voice suddenly husky. 

Without quite being sure how it’s happened, Steve finds himself sitting on Loki’s knee, their mouths pressed together, responding to a desire he’s never admitted, even to himself. He’s aroused--it feels good. He abandons all resistance and simply enjoys it.

“Is this a bad time?”

Thor is standing in the doorway, regarding them with something that looks like amusement.

Loki sighs again. “It’s probably a very good time, Brother. Otherwise, I’m liable to do myself a mischief in the process of rewarding my rescuer.” He smiles at Steve, who’s sure his hair is going to catch fire from the heat of his face.

“I’d better be going,” Steve blurts, standing up and edging toward the door.

“Thank you, Steve.” Loki is gazing at him, and why did Thor have to come by just then? He’s never going to have another chance, Loki can’t really be interested in him….

“Yes, thank you,” Thor repeats, that deep voice of his booming. “I’ve often heard that the pen is mightier than the sword, but tonight you’ve proven that the sketchpad is mightier than the tiger.”

…


	7. Bucky's Disgrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has his first blackout, and the aftermath gets ugly.

He’s had four drinks, maybe five. Okay, it could be more, but so what? The headache that’s been dogging him all day has finally receded. The carnival is closed for the night, the midway is quiet, and there’s a poker game going in the props trailer. 

And face it, what else is there to do? He could go back to the his trailer and elevate his leg--his stump is swollen and bulging above his prosthetic--but Bucky’s tired of being cooped up in a 90 square-foot sardine can all by his lonesome. Steve is out again, running around with that stuck-up tiger tamer and it’s been weeks since Bucky’s managed to lure a girl back home with him for relief. Clint is paying for the booze, so what the hell….

The trouble is, he’s losing. He got one modest pot a little while ago, but things have gone steadily downhill. His hand is trash--he washes out with a pair of fives and doesn’t have enough money to buy into the next hand. “I’m out,” he mutters.

No use sticking around here; he might as well go home and let gravity reduce the edema….

Lying back on his bunk, stump propped up with a cushion, he looks around the confined space with disfavor. It’s not the same without Steve. Oh, technically they still live together--Steve hasn’t moved his stuff out--but a lot of his clothes have found their way to Loki’s domicile, and he’s in and out when Bucky sees him at all.

Wait. 

Hold on a minute.

Bucky opens the door of the low cabinet where Steve stashes his sketchbooks and other personal possessions. The book is still there. It’s a battered old doorstop of a book; Steve has hollowed it out and that’s where he stashes his cash. He’s been saving up for a trailer of his own, and there’s a thick stack of greenbacks just sitting there.

Grabbing a handful of bills, Bucky coaxes his leg back into the fitted cup. The game isn’t over yet. He’s going to win his money back, and Steve will never know about the loan on the down low.

The next morning, Bucky wakes up in his own bunk. When he tries to get up to take a piss, he falls over, because he’s forgotten he only has one leg now. There’s no sign of Steve, so Bucky has to make his own coffee--Irish, because sweet Baby Jesus, he’s so hungover he can’t think straight and he needs the hair of the dog. What he really needs is one of those dogs that carries a keg around its neck. 

Man’s best friend, and a dog….

Just getting his ass in gear and getting over to his pitch takes all the concentration he can manage. He’s halfway tempted to pay the fine and open late, but he’s pretty sure he can’t spare it.

The money he ‘borrowed’ isn’t even on his radar, so he’s genuinely perplexed when he sees Steve crossing the midway later that day, carrying a milk crate heaped with his notebooks. Steve ignores his greeting, stone-faced, and Bucky is annoyed. So his oldest pal is abandoning him for his pretty new boyfriend and thinks he’s too good to say hello, even?

“I’m talking to you!” he snaps.

“Stealing from me, too,” Steve retorts. “Two hundred and forty bucks? What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? Nobody else knew where it was.”

Bucky stares at him, no fucking clue why Steve’s so pissed. What two hundred and forty dollars is he talking about? Then his memory and his stomach both lurch sickeningly. The last thing he remembers with any clarity is getting cleaned out at the card game. Could he have tried to win it back--with Steve’s money? Steve certainly seems to think so.

“I’ll pay you back,” he promises. “Every nickel. I’m sorry! Don’t go--” He makes a grab for the carton Steve is carrying, trying to stop him, because if the last few weeks have been lonely, the thought of what it’ll be like without Steve coming around at all spurs a bolt of outright panic. 

“Get go!” Steve hollers. “You’re not the boss of me!”

Steve has the advantage of complete sobriety and righteous anger. While Bucky tries to wrestle the box away from him, Steve hooks his foot behind Bucky’s right knee and yanks him off balance. Unprepared for the maneuver, Bucky wobbles on his artificial leg and falls flat on his back.

For a moment, he can’t believe that Steve would pull a dirty stunt like that. Then outrage wells up, and he lunges to his knees and throws himself at the retreating artist.

He outweighs Steve by thirty pounds, at least, but Steve has two good legs. There’s some grappling, with Bucky trying to restrain Steve while avoiding being unbalanced again. Then somebody grabs Bucky and hauls him off the artist. 

It’s Thor, who’s taller and more muscular than he is, plus, of course, the two good legs thing.

Minutes later, he’s in Tony Stark’s office while Steve spills the beans to the boss. What a rat. Okay, so maybe he made an error in judgement--Steve isn’t even giving him a chance to make good on the money, he’s snitching to Stark like a whiny-ass kid. Real nice, Stevie.

Stark eyes him with disfavor. Bucky explains. He honestly doesn’t remember taking any money. Last night he was playing cards with Clint and a few of the guys, then this morning, he woke up at home. That’s all he knows. Which is true, and a little scary--he’s never not remembered what happened while he was drinking, even if he has gotten pretty messed up sometimes. Maybe there was something in his drink and he got rolled?

“That doesn’t matter,” Stark says shortly. “You took money that didn’t belong to you without asking-- they call that _stealing._ ”

“You were the only one who knew it was there!” Steve fires at him. “I know you’re all butt-hurt ‘cause I’ve got a boyfriend, but that’s low even for you!”

Meanwhile, Tony goes to the door and bellows, “Pass the word for Barton!” He comes back inside. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” he growls. “I’m not going to put up with this kind of shit. Theft, brawling on the midway--nope, not at my show.”

Clint shows up in a pair of sweat pants and a wife-beater, clearly having just rolled out of bed. “What’s up, boss?”

“Tell me about your little card game last night. Specifically, _him_.”

“Friendly game. There was a bottle going around, he had a few belts, lost his bankroll….” Clint hesitates. “He left for a little while, then came back with more cash. Couple hundred. Lost that, too.”

“Ha!” Steve is triumphant and wrathful.

“Everyone was drinking from the same bottle?” Tony asks. Clint nods. “So there’s no chance one person could’ve been slipped a mickey? Didn’t think so. Okay, thanks Clint. Not all of that money was Bucky’s to lose, so you’re going to give Steve back $240 of whatever you won last night, and this shit isn’t going to happen again, is it? It isn’t like you aren’t making money from your act.”

“Cross my heart, Hawkeye will straighten up and fly right,” Clint vows solemnly. “I’ll bring the cash by your pitch, Steve.” And with that, he departs.

“You, on the other hand,” Tony glares at Bucky, “Your conduct leaves a lot to be desired. I know you’ve been drunk while you’re working your booth, I’ve had complaints about your foul mouth, and now you’ve added brawling on the lot and stealing from another crew member to your list of sins. I’ve had it with you. I want you out of here.”

“What?” Bucky stares at him, uncomprehending. “You--you’re kicking me out?” He’s horrified--what’s he supposed to do? He can't exactly set the gallery up on a street corner or some parking lot. 

Self-preservation kicks in, and Bucky starts talking as persuasively as he knows how. Everything he has is tied up in his wagon--the prizes, the machinery, the rifles--it’s not like he can afford to sell them off for peanuts! How else is he supposed to live? Yes, he’s got his trailer, but it’ll cost him to park it somewhere, and a guy’s got to eat.

Stark keeps gazing at him like he crawled out from under a rock, and Steve is no help at all. “Tell you what,” the boss says at last. I’ll let you sublet the pitch. Somebody else runs it and you get a percentage of the take--but you’re off the lot, as of today. Take it or leave it.”

Bucky is stunned. At least he’ll have an income, but-- “How much? What percent?”

“Forty percent of the net.” Stark’s voice is cold. “That way your lessee can pay his lot tax, replace prizes and buy BBs--and he makes something for his time.”

Jesus Christ. He’ll have to park at the nearest Walmart until he gets enough money for lot rent somewhere. What a massive goat rodeo this is--he glances at Steve, whose expression is anything but sympathetic. What a pal.

Stark gets his assistant to write up a sublease agreement, and Bucky signs it because he has no idea what the hell else to do. He could be signing away both kidneys and his first-born child, for all he knows--he feels numb. The last time he had an out-of-body experience like this was when he was being choppered back to base after the IED blew his foot off. 

“I hope you’re happy,” he says to Steve when they step back into the daylight outside Stark’s bailiwick.

“You don’t get it, do you? _It’s your own damn fault_ You spend most of your time stupid-drunk having a pity-party. Yeah, you lost your foot, and that’s too bad--but you’re not in a wheelchair, or blind or deaf, you have both your hands--you’re better off than a lot of people, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to see it.”

“Sorry if my suffering makes you uncomfortable,” Bucky snaps back. “What are you going to do when Mr. Hello Kitty gets tired of listening to you wheeze and kicks you to the curb?”

“You’re just jealous,” Steve retorts, looking so smug Bucky wants to wipe the smirk off his face with his fist.

“I hope you got all of your crap out of my trailer.” Self-control hurts, but he wouldn’t put it past Stark to call the cops if he starts it back up with Steve--he has that much sense left. “I’m pulling out as soon as I can get the hook-ups pulled. I’ll be glad to see the last of this lousy dump.”

Steve just rolls his eyes and leaves him standing there. 

….


	8. Two Redheads and a Blond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scarlet Witch has a terrifying premonition and big changes are in the wind for the flying act.

While many of the personnel at the Carnival By the Sea live on site, Wanda shares one side of a duplex with Natasha a couple blocks away. Pepper had had the other side, but since she left the act a couple months ago, the space has been vacant. The don’t mind, because this way it’s nice and quiet. They’ve worried about ending up with a neighbor who’s a pain in the ass. Keeping unconventional hours, the last thing they want next door is someone who’ll be banging around while they’re trying to sleep, or get mad because they make noise at night.

That’s okay, their landlord assures them. Pepper’s lease runs for eight more months, and she’s been paying on the dot, so it’s all the same to him. He can’t guarantee that she won’t sublet--she’s allowed to--but they’ve been good tenants and he likes them.

Pepper was one of them until she’d decided that she should have top billing and quit when she was outvoted. In some ways, her departure helped simplify the timing of their act. The two redheads can go through their new routine seamlessly with only the length of their hair to tell them apart in the rigging--and from a distance, even that may be tricky. There are some maneuvers they’ve had to delete because the need a third person, but at least they’re not contending with Pepper’s outsize ego and the rubes in the gallery still applaud.

Their trapeze act is only one aspect of their participation in the Carnival. Natasha still works with Clint’s and Bruce’s acts, while Wanda has a pitch on the midway where she tells fortunes until an hour before showtime--then she exits her tent, puts up the “Communing with the Spirits” sign and changes into her flying costume. 

Billing herself as the Scarlet Witch, she charges $20 for a ten minute reading, and it’s gratifyingly lucrative. What Wanda doesn’t advertise to her fellow performers is that she genuinely does have intuitive abilities. It isn’t 100% reliable, but she has regular customers who consult her for major life decisions, as well as people who _don’t_ return because she’s scared the heck out of them. Reading tarot cards, crystal-gazing or dukkering, she has a high level of accuracy. 

Most of the time, it’s clients with questions about jobs, money and their love lives, which accounts for most of her business. Occasionally, people will want to know about lost items, and a couple times a month, she’ll get someone who wants her to contact the deceased, which she tries to avoid. 

She’s just wrapping up a session with an absolutely typical client--she’d wanted to know if her significant other was cheating on her. It had been odd, because Wanda doesn’t ‘get’ anything about the woman’s boyfriend. Instead, she divines that the woman’s boss is having domestic difficulties that might affect the business. She says as much, then adds, “You should get your car serviced, and ask them to pay special attention to your brakes. You’ll need that car to look for another job.”

That wasn’t at all what the woman wanted to hear, which is why Wanda collects her fee up front. 

There’s a man waiting out front when her disgruntled client leaves. Men make up about a quarter of her business--they’re the ones most likely to ask about money and business, she’s found. This fellow is tall and rather on the thin side. He’s not bad looking, if you like sharp noses and pointy chins. 

She’s getting a curious vibe from him…he’s not a typical carnival-goer. for starters. Button-down shirts and polished oxfords aren’t the usual garb to visit the midway, even though they’re only forty minutes or so from Silicon Valley. It’s more than that, though. There’s something about his energy…it’s all over the place. He wants something…she gets a flash of his ambition.

He settles onto the chair across from her, hands her $20 and asks, “What can you tell me about Advanced Idea Mechanics stock?”

He’s trying to set her up; maybe it’s an insider trading scam? but there’s definitely an intent to get her into trouble. It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. “Nothing at all, sir. Perhaps you should consult your stockbroker.”

“What about their big project?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about the company.” As she says the words, a flash comes over her: _He’s_ the one in charge. The exact nature of the big project is elusive, but her intuition flashes neon warnings of danger. 

“Well, this is a bust,” he says lightly. “What about the woman I love?”

What about her? Wanda almost retorts. “If I might see your palm, sir?” Dukkering--or palm reading as the rubes usually call it, is something she learned at a young age. Although she doesn’t particularly want to touch this man, she wants to get to the bottom of what he’s trying to use her for.

With a shrug, he extends his hand and she takes it, turning it palm up. 

Then the bombshell bursts. She stares at him. “Pepper set you on us? I can’t believe it--why would she do such a thing? You can stuff it, Mr. Killian! Here’s your money back. Just go--and don’t come back!”

He stares at her for a moment. “She told me you were good.”

“And I told you to leave.” Wanda is angry now. He still thinks it’s a trick, that she’s really a fraud. “Go back to your BMW, to your high-rise condo--go to hell! And take Pepper Potts with you!”

Killian leaves the bill laying on her table, stands up and exits with a last intent look at her. 

Even though he’s gone, Wanda can’t get over the sense of danger she feels. Gingerly, she picks up the bill between two fingers and hurries to find Natasha.

“I need to talk to you,” she begins when she finds the other redhead lounging in the prop trailer. “I just had a client,” she says once they’re outside away from Phil and Clint, both of whom gossip like old ladies. “He gave me this--you take it, it makes my skin crawl.”

“Was he a serial killer, or what?” Natasha asks calmly. She knows better than anyone else here what Wanda really is. 

“No, but he’s involved with Pepper, somehow, and--” She tries to pinpoint the impressions she’d gotten from him. “They’re trying to make trouble, I know that much. I should’ve tried to get more out of him, but when I realized Pepper was mixed up in it, I kind of freaked. All I know is, his name is Killian, and he asked me about something called Advanced Idea Mechanics.”

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Aldrich Killian?”

Wanda shivers. “Yes. You know him? Who is he?”

“He’s a VR tycoon. AIM designs software for interactive virtual reality games, they’re the big name in the industry. Pepper used to be engaged to him.”

Pepper and Nat were roommates before Wanda joined the act, so it isn’t surprising that she knows details of Pepper’s past, but Wanda is still upset by the betrayal. “So after she left us, she ran back to him and now they’re trying to make trouble for us? But why? Just because we didn’t give her top billing? That’s crazy!”

“You couldn’t tell what it was?”

“No--I’ve always had trouble reading my own future. So if he’s trying to tamper with that--”

“If they’ve after you, they’re probably after me, too,” Natasha says glumly. “Wait, can you read the bill and see if you can figure out how it’s going to affect me?”

That’s a clever idea. From what Wanda knows about her, Natasha doesn’t have a lot of formal education, but she’s got a ton of street smarts--and an excellent instinct for self-preservation.

“I can try…” Wanda takes the bill in one hand and holds Nat’s hand with the other. Closes her eyes….

_Near-darkness…a tense of heightened tension…Killian’s fierce determination not to be bested…another man, his adversary…they’re stalking each other and oh god_ \--

Wanda opens her eyes. “A gun,” she says shakily. “He has a big gun, and he means to use it.”

“On me?” Nat looks at her sharply.

“No, not you. A man…and he’s someone we know.”

 

Natasha is folding laundry when the doorbell rings. Usually, she’d just answer it, but ever since Wanda’s warning about Aldrich Killian, she’s been wary about strangers.

Quietly, she goes into the breakfast nook and draws the curtain back just enough to get a look at the car in the driveway. Definitely not Killian--he’s got a fetish for Beemers--no, this is what passes for a station wagon these days. It’s not new and it’s more than a little dusty. Either they came across the desert or they just don’t believe in detailing.

Then the individual at the door steps back from the porch and she can see him clearly. Although she’s never met him in person, she recognizes Wanda’s brother Pietro from pictures. That’s a relief. She moves swiftly to the door, opening it as he reaches the driveway. 

“Hello!” she calls.

“Hello there…you must be Natasha.” 

He’s taller than she expected…she already knew he doesn’t look much like Wanda, although they’re twins. His hair is white-blond, wreathing his head in fluffy curls, utterly unlike his sister’s fiery mane. Although he looks and smells like he hasn’t had a shower in days, he has a pleasant smile.

“Wanda’s out grocery shopping,” she tells him, “but she should be back soon. Come on in.”

“Thanks. Do you think I could get cleaned up while I’m waiting? I’ve been on the road for a couple days and I’m a little ripe, sorry.”

“Of course. The bath with the shower is at the top of the stairs, right across the hall.”

“Sweet.” He retrieves a bag from his vehicle, and while he’s showering, Natasha returns to the laundry. 

Thoughtfully, she reviews what she knows about Wanda’s background--and by extension, her brother’s. Their extended family came from Eastern Europe--one of those countries that disappeared after the Soviet Union dissolved. The twins were orphaned as toddlers and taken in by an aged aunt who’d regarded them as an unwelcome duty.

They didn’t have a lot of extras, Wanda’s said more than once. It was lucky that their aunt had parked them in an after-school activities program that taught gymnastics. They’d both been good at it; by the time Wanda reached puberty, she was already burned out from competition, but Pietro had gone on to national and international competitions. The last Wanda mentioned, her brother was training in Colorado Springs with an eye to making the US Men’s Olympic team.

Pietro returns, shaved and wearing clean clothes. The light blue collared shirt highlights his blue eyes, as well as showing off his trim physique. 

“I’d offer you lunch,” she says, “but the cupboard’s are bare--that’s why Wanda’s out shopping.”

“I’ll manage,” he says cheerfully. His stomach rumbles, and he rolls his eyes. “Especially if she brings home some liverwurst. I couldn’t have it while I was in training, and I’m dying for a liverwurst sandwich!”

“I don’t think she’s ever bought liverwurst,” Natasha cautions him, “but I’m sure there’ll be some kind of lunch meat.” She’d noted the past tense--’was’ in training suggests that he isn’t any more. “So is this a visit, Pietro, or are you relocating?”

“She said you were quick.” His grin is bright, but his eyes tell another story. “I guess I’m relocating.”

“I’m sorry. I take it things didn’t work out?” That’s sympathetic without being too-too.

“Eh, fucking Strucker has no sense of humor.” At her blank look, he goes on. “Baron Strucker, head coach and uptight ass-hat extraordinaire. He kept fining me for bullshit stuff like having colored shoelaces instead of regulation white--hey, they were red, white and blue, and it was only a freaking practice!--stuff like that. I finally kind of lost my temper and told him to go shit in his hat.”

“Smooth,” Natasha drawls. “And now you’re here. Any idea what you’re going to do next?”

“Well, I was thinking Wanda and I could work up an act, maybe. But there’s no reason I couldn’t work with two beautiful redheads instead of just one.” He gives her a hopeful smile.

“Trapeze work is different from gymnastics,” she reminds him. “It’ll take a while to get you trained.”

“Any reason I couldn’t do a straight up gymnastics routine? As filler between other acts, maybe?”

“You’d have to take that up with Tony Stark. He’s the boss.”

Having him in the act would more than fill the vacancy Pepper’s departure created. He’s big and solid enough to catch either of them, while who caught who had been an issue before. 

“This place is awfully small,” he comments. “I don’t think you guys want me crashing on your couch indefinitely. Any ideas?”

“That depends on how much money you have. The duplex next door is vacant, but you’ll need deposits and all that--probably two or three thousand by the time you figure in the utilities. On the other hand, there’s some furniture the previous tenant left behind; you wouldn’t have to buy that.”

“At the moment, I have exactly $216.84. Period. Maybe I could camp out in the backyard?”

“We need to get you in to see Tony for an audition asap. Tomorrow morning, preferably. We can worry about costumes later--do you have a leotard and tights?” 

“Yes, but…I need to do laundry,” he grins sheepishly. “I kept putting it off…sometimes, I got new stuff just to put off washing it all.”

Natasha aims a disapproving stare in his direction. He shrugs, and he’s reminded that while he may be a few minutes older than his sister, he’s fully seven years younger than she is. Never mind how cute and charming he tries to be, that just highlights his general immaturity. Still, if he can discipline his way into the act, maybe that will shape him up.

“Bring them in,” she says finally. “Let’s get that done and see if they’ll work for you to try out in.”

His smile widens, and he hustles out to the station wagon, returning with two full sports bags, in addition to the one he’s brought in already.

“Sort them,” she suggests. “Because I’m certainly not going to do it for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to, Natasha.” His voice caresses her name, and she blushes.

“Here, we’ve got some lingerie bags to put your tights in so they don’t get snagged or tied in knots. Good grief, you’ve got more leotards than I do!”

The first bag he’s unpacked was completely stuffed with long-sleeved leotards, short-sleeved, singlets…not many tights. Then he opens the second bag, which is crammed with tights and a few pairs of shoes.

“The rest of my dirty laundry is out in the car, I just grabbed the workout wear” Pietro tells her, making piles of darks, brights and whites. “I really appreciate this. I don’t usually live like this, but the last couple of months--” 

He sighs, the grin disappearing. “Strucker’s been giving me shit non-stop. I’ve been working my ass off, and he decided that his protege deserved the alternate spot on the team instead of me. And then he started picking on me about all that trivial bullshit--I could see the writing on the wall. Nothing was going to get me on that team, short of a mass extinction event.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she says lightly. “You’ve come to the right place. The Carnival By the Sea is full of misfits, rejects and lost souls. You’ll fit right in.”

By the time Wanda returns, Pietro’s first load of laundry is agitating.

Watching the twins reunite, Natasha can’t help but feel wistful at their bond. Amid the hugs and flurry of conversation--in which they either finish each other’s sentences or don’t finish sentences at all, it’s plain to see that they adore each other. Wanda is more animated than Natasha has ever seen her, while Pietro s glum mood has vanished.

He trots out to the car, Wanda bossing him as he lugs in the bags she’s brought back. It’s about twice as many groceries as they usually get…perhaps she had a premonition that they’d have company.

Apparently so. One of the bags contains a roll of liverwurst.

 

“Nobody wants to see your junk, Pietro!” Wanda says fiercely. “Go put on a codpiece.”

With three loads of laundry done, he’s modeling potential audition ensembles for them, and it’s a revelation in more ways than one. The golf shirt and shorts he had on before only suggested how well-developed the young gymnast was. 

Now, clad in pewter tights and a leotard that make him look as if he’s been dipped in mercury, it’s obvious that Pietro doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. And that isn’t the only thing that’s obvious….

“She’s right,” Natasha says, dragging her eyes away from the obvious. “You wouldn’t dress that way for competition, would you?”

“That depends on the judges,” he grins, then assumes a penitent expression. “Right. Wear a cup.”

“Other than that, you’ll do. That color works on you…it’s not too dull, not too flashy.” And it makes your eyes look electric, Nat thinks, but doesn’t say, because the audience won’t be able to see that particular detail.

“Okay, so we’ll go over to the big top super early so you can get a feel for things,” Wanda plans. “You’ve never been on a real trapeze before, have you? I know you can do plenty of tricks and you’re not going to get stage fright, but it’s different when you’re thirty feet in the air.”

“Yeah, the midway doesn’t open til ten, and Tony’s notoriously not a morning person, so if we get there around six or seven, we’ll pretty much have the place to ourselves.” Natasha is underwhelmed at the thought of getting up and working out so early, but if they’re going to restructure the act to include Pietro, sacrifices have to be made--sleep being one of them.

 

When do things ever go as planned? Natasha wonders the next morning when Tony turns up in the middle of their practice session with Pietro. It’s completely out of character for him to be awake at 7:30 a.m.--but of course, it’s completely inconvenient for them, so that’s completely in character.

They’ve taught Pietro the right way to climb the rope ladder up to the rigging, how to fall to the net--because you can get seriously messed up if you do it wrong. He doesn’t seem to suffer from vertigo, fortunately, and he’s performing on the swinging trapeze as nimbly as if it was fixed in place like the ones he’s used to.

He isn’t wearing the sleek silvery ensemble they’d reviewed; instead, he has on an old pale blue leotard and tights, so well-worn they’re almost grey. 

And, heaven help them, they haven’t showed him how to get back to the platform--and while it’s a relief that he knows how to fall, it isn’t going to impress the boss as an elegant dismount would. She can only watch as Pietro twines about the bar and wires, one eye on him, the other on Stark, who has a mug of (probably laced) coffee in his hand and a polite but underwhelmed expression on his face.

“What do you think?” Pietro calls to them.

“Come down and we can talk about it,” Tony hollers back.

Pietro pumps his legs back and forth like a boy on a backyard swing. What on earth is he trying to do?! He can’t think he’s going to jump to the platform? Then, at the apex of his swing, he lets go the wires and sails off the trapeze. 

Wanda cries out, and Natasha hears herself yelp-- but Pietro catches the rope ladder partway down its length and clambers to the sawdust of the ring without further ado.

“You must be Mr. Stark,” Pietro greets him with a smile and firm handshake. Tony winces slightly. “The idea was for me to get a feel for you rigging before auditioning, but here you are. I hope that was satisfactory?”

“You want to join the show?” Tony asks, and Pietro nods eagerly.

“We’re going to work him into our act,” Natasha interjects, “but meanwhile, he needs to start earning some money so he isn’t crashing on our couch. Our place is a little too small for that.”

Tony is still staring at Pietro. “There are a few rules,” he says and Pietro visibly braces himself. “One of your duties will be appearing the the spectacle--that’s the opening parade. Miss that, you get docked. No fighting. You have a beef with anybody, take it off the lot. Watch your language around the guests. I don’t care if you swear like a sailor on your own time, but don’t do it where it’s going to offend the people who come here to be entertained. Same goes for any other questionable behavior. Show up impaired for a performance and you’ll get fined--if I don’t bounce you outright. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Pietro agrees. “I can do that, that’s perfectly reasonable. Just don’t hassle me about my shoelaces, okay?”

“Shoelaces?” He looks toward Natasha and Wanda for clarification, then shrugs. “We can work you in between Bruce and the cat show,” he says. “Plan for five to seven minutes. You can start tomorrow.”

“That’s terrific! Thank you, Mr. Stark!” Pietro is beaming.

“Right.” Tony turns toward the exit. “Oh, and for god’s sake, girls--teach him how to fucking dismount!”

“That reminds me,” Wanda says after Stark disappears through the far exit. “I saw him yesterday--Bucky.”

“How is he?” Nat wants to know.

“Who is he?” her brother asks.

“He’s the reason you got that little speech from Tony,” Natasha tells him wryly. “He has a drinking problem, and he got into a brawl with someone in the middle of the midway--that’s what got him kicked out. How’s he doing?”

Wanda’s lip trembles. “Not good. Not good at all. He’s living in the parking lot at the Walmart, that’s where I bumped into him. His trailer doesn’t even have running water, he has to go across the parking lot every time he needs to use the bathroom.”

Pietro side-eyes Natasha. “Where you guys an item?” he asks.

“No, but we were friends.” She’s troubled by the news. “When he first got here, he was a lot of fun, but little by little, he started drinking more and more. He opened his pitch late, he cussed around the customers--and you can’t do that with so many kids in the audience--he borrowed money without asking and then got into a huge fight about it. That’s when Stark evicted him.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Pietro declares. “And we’re going to have a terrific flying act, aren’t we, ladies? Just as soon as you teach me how to dismount.”

…


	9. Still Life, With Tigers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's been living with Loki since Bucky's departure--but is there trouble in paradise?

Living with Loki has some definitely advantages over living with Bucky, Steve’s discovered. For one thing, Loki keeps the place spotless--it’s a nice change from tripping over Bucky’s laundry when he gets up to go to the can in the middle of the night. The food is better, too. Loki feeds the cats prime beef, quality chicken and fresh fish, and orders enough extra to feed them, too. That, along with fresh vegetables offers Steve better nutrition than he’s had in forever.

The downside to that is, Steve has to watch his own messy tendencies. Little things like an unrinsed glass sitting on the table, a plate left in the sink or shoes kicked off under the table irritate Loki. He doesn’t say so in so many words, but it’s clear from the way his lips compress and he carefully moves the offending item to where it’s supposed to be. 

Most disturbing is his habit of bringing his work home with him--literally. Not every night, but most nights, one of the tigers spends the night in the trailer. 

That frequently sets off Steve’s asthma. He’s taken to sleeping with his inhaler under his pillow. Even worse, it scares him stiff. It’s one thing when they’re in the ring or the menagerie--but waking at 4 a.m. and seeing yellow eyes staring at him in the dimness and knowing they belong to a huge uncaged predator--that’s enough to scare the piss out of him. (Of course, that assumes he actually manged to fall asleep with a big cat just feet away.) Even Frigga, who likes him, is intimidating when she’s stretched out full length between the bunk and the bathroom.

When he broaches the subject to his boyfriend, Loki frowns. “It’s important to keep them socialized, Steve. The rapport we have is a delicate thing--I’d be betraying that if I kept them in the menagerie 24/7. You knew what my job was from the beginning, did you think that was going to change?”

Those are minor details, Steve tells himself. It’s not going to hurt him to have to be neater. The food is great--no more mystery meat chili at the grease wagon, yay! And private time with Loki is incredible.

Steve’s had a few short-term boyfriends before this, but Loki is different. He’s more experienced, more mature…that sexy confidence he has in the ring is no less alluring between the sheets. Although they haven’t discussed it at length, Steve’s sure it isn’t one-sided--Loki is affectionate with him, relaxed and playful.

If it wasn’t for the damn tigers at least five nights a week, everything would be perfect.

“You look good,” Natasha compliments him one morning. “You’re not skin and bones any more.”

He’s out in the bleachers while Loki’s putting the cats through their routine--she’s there working with Wanda and the new kid, Wanda’s brother. Steve has caught the kid’s solo routine--he’s really good; long term, they’re trying to work him into the regular flying act.

“You, too. The kid’s coming along.”

“Slowly but surely.” She smiles. Steve remembers the crush he had on her--sometimes he still thinks wistful thoughts about what might have been--but he’s happy with Loki.

Wanda and Pietro join them. Pietro has great bone structure--they both do--Steve flips a page in his sketchpad and starts to draw the twins.

“I ran into Bucky,” Wanda says abruptly, and the pencil jumps across the page. “A couple weeks ago. He’s living in the parking lot at Walmart.”

He stares at her for a long moment, the sketch forgotten. Then he gets defensive “So? Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do about it?!”

“If you’re going to start yelling, take it outside,” Loki snaps. “Some of us are trying to work here!”

So they do. That is, Steve closes his pad and heads out of the tent. The flyers are right behind him.

“He’s lonely and miserable.” Wanda is relentless. “And things are going to get worse before they get better. I’m worried about him.”

“For crying out loud, he ripped me off, and you’re acting like it’s my fault!” Steve responds irritably. “What was I supposed to do? Let him pay me back on the installment plan--while he spent all his money on bourbon? And besides, Tony was getting ready to give him the boot anyway--his drinking was out of control.”

“Tony isn’t without sin himself when it comes to drinking!” she retorts. “Meanwhile, Bucky’s lost his foot, his family and now he’s losing everything else!”

Guilt and anger war in Steve’s gut. “He did it to himself.”

“With a little help from his best friend,” is Wanda’s bitter rejoinder. She walks away toward her pitch, her long red hair rippling in the morning breeze.. 

“Is that what _you_ think?” he demands of Natasha. 

“Don’t look at me,” she says with a shrug. “You put up with a lot more of his crap than I would’ve.”

“She gets like that sometimes,” Pietro comments with a lazy wave of his hand. “She’s very sensitive. Don’t worry about it.”

Steve continues to his pitch. Bucky’s been gone for four months, and he’s gotten used to not having him around, gotten used to the new guy who’s taken over his pitch (although he suspects Grant of skimming what he can out of the gallery--the quality of the prizes is way down from what they were during Bucky’s tenure)…and he’s convinced himself he isn’t guilty of anything.

Bucky stole from him. Steve might have been willing to let that go, eventually--but then he’d started that stupid fight in the middle of the midway--what did he think was going to happen? After hours stuff Tony lets slide--but not shenanigans in front of the paying guests! 

Although it happened before his time, Steve knows that Tony Stark bought the Carnival By the Sea several years earlier. Run by an unsavory element, its reputation was anything but family-friendly. Fights broke out often, and there were rumors they’d also offered drugs and hookers. After three deaths on the property in the preceding year--two overdoses and a stabbing-- plus assorted thefts and assaults, the town fathers had closed it down. Supposedly, Tony sank a good chunk of his trust fund into the place for the purchase price and the clean-up. It’s prospering now, thanks in good part to Tony’s insistence in running a clean, safe show that’s suitable for all ages. 

With that in mind, Steve can’t blame Tony for showing Bucky the door. If Bucky hadn’t started that fight, maybe they could have worked things out between them, but ‘what if’ won’t change what happened. Wanda listened to whatever sob story justification Bucky fed her, that’s all. Whatever the guy is going through now, it’s his own fault.

It’s bad enough that Wanda called him out--the day goes downhill from there.

One client gets a call in the middle of being sketched, goes outside to take it because it’s personal, and disappears, portrait half-done and no money in Steve’s pocket. He’s nearly completed another drawing when somebody’s kid careens into him, sending a slash of ink through the picture and rendering it unsalable. There’s a late afternoon cloudburst that keeps patrons away for over an hour, and by them, it’s time for the evening show. He makes a grand total of forty dollars for the day, which disgusts him. Usually he clears at least a hundred--has to, to make the fee for his pitch.

That night, he’s reading after the midway has closed down, listening for Loki and waiting--dreading the moment when the trailer door opens and Loki enters with one of the cats. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful: Loki took him in without question when things soured with Bucky--but sharing his boyfriend and his living space with a rotation of tigers is getting on Steve’s nerves.

“Oh, good--you’re still up.” Loki sounds pleased, and Steve’s happy to see that he’s alone tonight. “Here, put on your shoes--I need to show you something.”

Steve responds to the tone of Loki’s voice, which holds a promise of something good. Maybe he’s planned a romantic surprise? A candlelight dinner or a moonlight serenade--whatever it is, Steve is hopeful that it’ll just be the two of them. He follows Loki through the backlot, but they don’t go far. Loki raps on the door of one of the trailers, shooting a conspiratorial look at Steve, who’s mystified. The door is answered by a familiar-looking white-haired man. Steve’s seen him around the lot, but doesn’t remember his name. 

“Mr. Duggan!” Loki greets him. “Here we are.”

“Come on in.” Duggan steps back, allowing them to enter his trailer and waving a hand toward the seating area. “Pull up a pew.”

Why are they visiting this guy? Steve glances around the trailer for clues, but it’s unnaturally tidy. There are no mementos or personal items lying around at all, no dishes by the sink, the empty coffee pot has been scoured. Loki may be a neat-freak, but this guy Duggan takes minimalism to a whole new extreme.

“You say you’re pulling out on Friday?” Loki asks him.

“Yeah, I’m getting too old for this shit. I’m looking forward to Florida--more people my own age and fewer candy-ass liberals. My sister says the first couple boxes I sent have already got there, all I have to do now is get on the plane.”

“Mr. Duggan is looking for a buyer for his trailer, Steve,” Loki enlightens him. “He’s retiring to go live with his widowed sister, so this place is on the market.”

"I thought I had a buyer lined up," Duggan sighs, "but it fell through at the last minute."

Blindsided, Steve takes another look around. It’s pretty typical--white-painted cabinets, built-in bunk that folds out into a double bed and ugly pre-printed ‘wallpaper’--in this case, teal and mauve swirls on an off-white background. Everything seems well-maintained--the kitchen faucet doesn’t drip, the teal carpet isn’t unraveling, the light fixture has an actual shade instead of a bare bulb. There’s nothing obviously wrong with it--but this wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Take a look around,” Duggan invites them, opening the door and preparing to leave. “I need to try to track down Gabe before I’m gone. Guy owes me sixty bucks and I swear he’s avoiding me to get out of paying it back.”

“What do you think?” Loki asks as soon as they're alone. He gestures at the living space. “It’s quite nice, and he’s asking a very reasonable price.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

One of Loki’s eyebrows arches. “No, I’m not ‘throwing you out’. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the money Bucky stole from you part of your savings? Savings you said was intended to buy a trailer of your own?”

Steve watches the two dots in the middle of the time display on the microwave blink endlessly. It’s true, he’s been saving for a place of his own--but he and Loki have never discussed it him leaving. He thought they would be together for a long time…but it sounds like Loki is disenchanted and wants to be rid of him.

“I think it will solve all our problems,” Loki continues as pleasantly as if he isn’t shredding Steve’s heart by inches. “We can still spend time together, but this way, you’ll have your own space.”

“It’s a nice trailer, I guess,” Steve says, trying to keep the hurt from showing. 

“It is. And it’s untainted by tigers, so you won’t be wheezing all the time.” Startled, Steve looks directly at him. Loki’s smile is tinged with sadness. “I really hoped that as you got stronger it would beef up your immune system--you wouldn’t be bothered by those allergies so often, but that hasn’t happened. This way, you’ll be in a clean environment most of the time.”

The regret in his voice is real. Steve feels a little better. Loki does care about him. “I’m a lot better than I used to be,” he observes. “Natasha was saying so just this morning. I’ve put on about ten pounds from your cooking.”

Loki puts an arm around his shoulders. “You aren’t as pale, either. Except when I come home with one of the cats. Then you turn the color of a cauliflower and tense up. I hate seeing you so worried all the time. This way, I can come by--I’ll be happy to fix us dinner here, it’s quite a nice little galley--we can enjoy each other and then you can go to sleep and I can detour to the menagerie for a cat on the way home. Everybody’s happy.”

It’s not a bad plan. It came of of left field, but with a chance to think about it, Steve recognizes its merits. He’d like a place of his own, a happy medium between Bucky’s squalor and Loki’s extreme tidiness. Duggan’s place is a blank canvas, he can make it home--put up his artwork, buy more books, arrange things the way he wants them--and kick off his shoes wherever he wants to.

“How much is he asking?” Steve inquires hesitantly. “I like it, but what if I don’t have enough?”

“Don’t worry about it. If it’s more than you have, I’ll pay the difference.” Loki kisses him. “I want you to be happy and comfortable...” More kisses. “Sweetheart….”

The bunk has a great mattress. It’s supportive, but not rock-hard. The idea of having a bunk of his own, unaccompanied by tigers--it’s brilliant. Actually getting a decent amount of sleep every night would be fantastic Between anxiety and an active sex life, Steve has been sleep-deprived for months. 

As soon as Loki gets him horizontal, Steve starts to yawn, which breaks the mood. “Sorry,” he apologizes. 

“Just as well,” Loki sighs, sitting up. “I’d hate to imagine Duggan coming back and catching us in flagrate delicto.”

“Friday night? When it’s all mine and we can lock the door and you can have your way with me?” It’s only Tuesday--how is he ever going to make it through the week? 

Loki’s smile is as predatory as any of his tigers, and Steve shivers with delight. “It’s a date,” he purrs.

…


	10. Curtains and Kahlua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are surprises associated with Steve's 'new' trailer.

The teal and mauve has to go. Steve wakes up every morning and the sight of the swirls on their dingy ivory background is depressing. Otherwise, Duggan’s trailer--now _his_ trailer--is great.

The old man left behind some things--dishes, coffee maker, contents of the mop closet, even bedding--so Steve doesn’t have to spend much cash to make the trailer habitable. His one big splurge is a hand-held shower massager to replace the original (rusting) wall-mounted shower-head. Eric Selvig installs it for him--he’s the go-to guy for odd jobs around the lot.

Loki imports a variety of cooking gadgetry, duplicates of what he has at home, he explains, because there’s no sense in running back and forth all the time for a strainer or a mandolin. He’s as good as his word about coming by to cook at night after the midway has closed down, and always leaves the galley as clean or cleaner than he found it.

Wanda, apparently over her snit about Bucky, brings him a stuffed cabbage casserole and says the Corningware dish is his to keep. Loki approves.

Pietro contributes a gift certificate for a local craft shop, good toward $35 on any framing purchase. That’ll come in handy, once he has something worthy of framing. 

Phil presents him with an artifact from the props trailer: a shield once carried by the ‘gladiator’ who rode an elephant in the spectacle. No more performing elephants, alas…what he’s supposed to do with it, he has no clue. Hang it on the wall, he guesses, and stick notes to it with refrigerator magnets.

Without fanfare, Nat gives him with a pair of bath sheets in his favorite color, royal blue. “So you’ll have something to dry off with after you enjoy your deluxe shower,” she teases. “Even if they do clash with that wallpaper.”

“I hate it,” Steve admits. “But I’m kind of stuck with it.”

“The 90’s called--they want their wallpaper back. Can’t you paint over it if you seal it or prime it first?”

“I never thought of that. I could try…it couldn’t be any worse than it is now.”

A trial visit to the local big box hardware store is encouraging. Priming and painting the modest trailer won’t be ruinously expensive--about a hundred dollars for paint and supplies. To his astonishment, a bunch of the crew chips in to give him a gift card that more than covers the cost of paint. He can add a few other little touches to personalize the space--new hardware in the galley, a backsplash over the sink, a heavy-duty welcome mat for the front stoop. 

For the first couple weeks, Steve is busy with home improvements. When he isn’t working his pitch, he’s working on the trailer. He carefully cleans and primes the walls, overjoyed when he wakes up to plain white primer instead of the detested dated print. After looking through what seems like ten thousand paint samples, he ends up painting over it with a calm, buttery yellow. 

“That’s nice,” Nat comments, helping him cut in around the windows. “It’s a happy color.”

“Neutral, but warm,” he agrees, admiring the cheerful contrast between that and the primer. “And it looks okay with the carpet.” The carpet is teal, but at least it isn’t that sickly mauve. And it’s still in good condition, so Steve can’t justify ripping it out solely on aesthetic grounds.

“The carpet is okay. At least it’s a solid color. Get a bedspread to match and it’ll look classy.”

“Gotta do something about the blinds, though. I know I need something to cover the windows, but pink mini-blinds? Ugh.”

“Leave it to me, Steve. I’ll find something.”

The painting is done. New copper hardware gleams in the kitchen. The area between the countertops and the bottom of the cabinets sports a warm gold backsplash in a pseudo-tiled hexagonal pattern that makes Steve think of a honeycomb. It’s perfect with the subtly yellow walls, and he often finds himself looking up from his book and staring at the cozy space, unable to believe it’s really his.

One afternoon, not long after he’s completed the work, Nat comes by his pitch in the middle of the afternoon and demands his key. “I’ve got your curtains,” she declares. “Give me the key so I can go in and hang them up.”

He’s working on a portrait for a family of four, so he’s not inclined to argue. He fishes out his key ring, hands it to her and gets on with drawing. The lady wants to send it to her husband, who’s deployed, so Steve is focused on conveying as much of the kids’ personalities as he can. They’re four, seven and nine, and their 30-ish mom jokes with them to keep them entertained while they sit for Steve’s sketch. They’re well-behaved moppets, and Steve really hopes their dad makes it home safely.

With that on his mind, he’s forgotten all about Nat’s interruption until she reappears and hands back his keys. “You’re all set--no more pink mini-blinds!”

The day is busy enough that the matter of new curtains slips his mind again almost as soon as she’s gone. It isn’t until he enters the trailer at 11 o’clock that evening that he registers the transformation. Somewhere, Natasha found hexagonal print fabric. The galley/dining area has gold-on-white curtains that look just right with the backsplash. The windows over and across from the bunk are a panel of the same print in blue on white. Not only does it match the bath sheets, she’s added a simple blue comforter to his bed.

She’s right; it does look classy. Royal blue works with the teal, which isn’t nearly obnoxious on the floor as it was as part of the wallpaper.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he stammers when he sees her the next day. “I wish there was something I could do for you--”

“There is--draw up a new poster for the flying act. Ours is so out of date it’s ludicrous. We need something with Pietro in it--he’s ready to join us full-time, and it would be great if we could get something we could print up and sell as a souvenir. How about it?”

“It’s the least I can do. You’re the greatest, Nat!”

Although he’s been with Stark’s for a couple years now, Steve is only starting to realize how many friends he has. He hasn’t really thought about it before. He’s friendly with everyone, because he was taught it’s polite to acknowledge people you see on a regular basis. He knows a lot of the company by name, and they know him--if not from his pitch, from his rescue of Loki. 

People start dropping by the trailer on the Sunday evening three weeks after he’s taken possession of it. The Carnival By the Sea closes early on Sundays at this time of year. They’re also currently closed on Mondays, so Sunday nights are prime time to party.

Thor shows up about a half-hour after the park has closed, bearing a case of beer and the biggest bottle of whisky Steve’s ever seen. Unsuspecting, Steve invites him in. Pretty soon, Clint comes by with another enormous bottle, this one of rum, and Phil has a set of shot-glasses. Everyone who drops in brings either booze or glassware, and they take turns inspecting Steve’s premises. 

The party spills into the backlot, with people setting up card tables to drink, play cards and schmooze. Sitwell, one of the clowns, fires up his barbecue grill and food magically appears. The turnout is amazing. Steve tells himself it’s because the show hasn’t had anything to celebrate lately and they’re seizing the opportunity. The idea that he might actually be popular never dawns on him, because that’s not how he thinks of himself.

Most of the company lives on the grounds--or nearby, so there’s no worry about driving home. Everybody applies themselves to the booze--if not what they brought, what someone else brought. Even so, when Steve takes inventory the next morning, he’s somehow acquired a full bar. It includes five bottles of wine, a full fifth of bourbon, most of a bottle of Fireball whisky, three partial bottles of vodka (assorted flavors), a plethora of partial random bottles of other things. a dozen cans of soda and several sets of glasses, not including a dozen plastic tumblers that look suspiciously like the ones used at the grease wagon.

“Well, you can get rid of Duggan’s old junk now,” Natasha says. She’s stopped by after the act’s morning rehearsal.

She’s a lot perkier than Steve is this morning. Not that Steve had partied that hard; alcohol mixes poorly with his meds--but the party in his backyard went on until sunrise, which made it difficult to sleep even without Loki, who gets surprisingly amorous when intoxicated. He’s had barely four hours of sleep and all he wants is coffee, not decorating advice.

“I’m glad you’re having fun playing house in my trailer,” Steve says, willing the coffeemaker to drip faster, “and by all means, make room for some of this stuff, because I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do with it all. This is more booze than I could drink in five lifetimes.”

She starts emptying the mismatched contents of a cupboard into a cardboard flat that formerly held soda, and he thankfully pours his first cup. “I’ll keep an eye out for a wine rack,” she mutters absently. “The rest of this stuff…let’s see how much room there is in the broom closet….”

“If there’s anything you want, feel free. It was nice of them, but they really didn’t have to.” 

“Shame on you, giving away your housewarming gifts. I’ll take the Kahlua, if you’re serious.”

Housewarming gifts? Steve blinks at his half-empty mug. He’d been so carried away by yesterday’s events that he hadn’t thought to put a name to it. Come to think of it, it _had_ been a party. Nobody hollered “Surprise!”, but considering how tables and chairs sprouted up around his trailer, how meat appeared for Sitwell to grill and the various food and snacks being passed around…. 

“I’m an idiot,” he says out loud, swallowing more coffee, in hopes caffeine can reduce the fog. Talk about being dense! “If it was a gift, it’s mine, so I can give it away if I want to. Enjoy your Kahlua.”

“I’ll see if I can find you some better dishes when I drop this stuff off at the thrift store. Those stoneware things are hideous.”

Steve smiles and refills his mug. “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be great.”

Later, over dinner, Loki decants one of the bottles of wine into a pair of the new stemmed goblets and they enjoy it with some delicious spicy tuna. Steve brings up the party he hadn’t even recognized as such. “I feel really dumb,” he concludes. “It never occurred to me that that many people would want to throw me a party.”

“Why wouldn’t they? You’re a nice guy. You get along with people. You’re as friendly with the roughnecks and pitchmen as you are the performers. That deserves a heartwarming party.”

Steve gazes at him for a moment. “A heartwarming party?”

“Oops.” He eyes his glass accusingly. “Long day. Heimdall’s being a little shit. I meant a housewarming party.”

“That’s okay. I think you got it right the first time!”

…


	11. Hitting Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have gone from bad to worse since Bucky left Stark's. Now he has to pick up the pieces with the help of a new friend.

Amazing what a guy can get used to. Not having a foot. Living in a trailer in a big box store parking lot. Existing on a diet of bourbon and coffee. 

He just has to be careful, because if he gets banned from Walmart, where the fuck is he going to go? He wears the cleanest clothes he has when he goes over there, doesn’t take a flask with him, is polite to the greeters and cashiers…it’s not the same as having friends, he remembers, but if they were his friends, why did they throw him out?

There’s a slight slope to the parking lot, which pulls him off-balance after he’s had a couple. Today it feels like everything is skewed to the left. He just wants to get a cup of coffee from the McDonald's inside the store. He needs it--it’s just a ridiculous amount of effort.

Life these days seems to be too much work. He gets a little money every week for the sublet on the gallery, but whoever is running the show must be doing a really crummy job, because he knows forty percent of what he used to make is more than they’re giving him. He even can’t address the matter-- the one time he tried to get in to see Stark, he was told they’d file a restraining order if he set foot on the lot again. He’s well and truly screwed.

Okay, this isn’t so bad…then Bucky realizes he’s horizontal in the parking lot, staring at the store thirty yards away. He’s sore all over. Must’ve fallen. Probably tripped…damn curvy parking lot….

The TV is too loud. It’s on some show with a first-responder-type spouting medical jargon. “…line is in, one unit of saline. BP is 71 over 50….”

He can’t find the remote to mute it, damn. Then his bunk jolts, and he cracks his eyes to a dark face looking down at him. “Stay with me,” the guy says. Same voice as the show. No, he’s in an ambulance.

That’s when Bucky freaks out. He can’t move. His arms don’t respond to his control, he isn’t sure how many feet he has. All he can think is that something’s happened, and this time, he’s lost everything. He starts screaming incoherently in his terror.

“Careful!” the paramedic warns him. “Your veins are terrible, I don’t want to have to stick you again if you perforate that line.” He rests a hand on Bucky’s bicep, and just knowing it’s still there calms him. 

“Can you feel my hands?” he asks the guy, desperate to know that he hasn’t lost any more of himself.

“Your palms are skinned.” The paramedic’s hands on his are gentle. Bucky’s almost sick with relief. “Looks like you passed out in the parking lot. The officer who responded to the scene did a Breathalyzer on you and called us--you’re about two shots away from being toxic.”

“How many feet do I have?” Bucky begs. 

“Nobody stole your prosthetic, and the other one seems just fine, although your knee is skinned--your jeans are ripped and there’s some blood…let me take a look….”

There’s a flash of scissors in Bucky’s peripheral vision, then a scritch of tearing fabric as the medic slashes his jeans up to the knee. “Not too bad,” he says reassuringly. “I’ll clean that off with some hydrogen peroxide. I’m more worried about your blood alcohol. Can you tell me how much you’ve had to drink today?”

“All of it….”

When they get him to the ER, Bucky lets them do whatever they want. He’s clear that he can’t pay for any of it--he’s disabled, out of work and has no reliable income--but they keep replenishing the IV bags as they empty and running tests…blood tests, x-rays, a CAT scan…he doesn’t care, any more than he’d care if they shoved him off into a corner and let him die.

There’s one thing he’s learned about medical personnel: They want you to be grateful to them for saving your life, and they get very disappointed when you’re not. This bunch wants to save him so bad they’re going to keep him overnight. 

Bucky doesn’t object. At least this way, he can take advantage of the shower facilities and get clean. He’s been using the open-air showers on the boardwalk to get rid of the worst funk, since he hasn’t got a running water line at his trailer. The idea of a private place where he can scrub _everything_ is pretty enticing. 

He’s surprised when the paramedic shows up in his room that evening. He’s fairly sure it’s the same guy--African-American, chiseled features--when he greets Bucky it’s his pleasant voice that clicks.

“I’m Sam Wilson. How are you doing, Mr. Barnes?”

“Ask them--” He waves a hand to indicate the medical establishment in general. “This is, like, the fourth IV they’ve given me. Every once in a while, somebody sticks a needle in and draws blood. Nobody tells me shit.”

“I’ll do that.” He walks out of the room, returning a few minutes later. “Your blood alcohol was still creeping up when they started the second bag, but it’s finally going down. You would’ve died without treatment.”

”Lucky me.”

Sam ignores the bitter quip. “Your liver is enlarged and you have a kidney infection. It looks like you’re going to be in here for a couple days.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m not worth all this trouble.”

“Sure you are. Everybody is--whether they believe it or not.” What an idealist. Probably what makes him so good at his job. Bucky remembers that confident voice and how it pulled him out of his panic attack. “It sounds like you need to work on that.”

“I need the hair of the dog--or at least a cup of coffee. That’s all I wanted--a fucking cup of coffee.”

“You know that doesn’t magically sober you up, right? The alcohol is still in your system.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I--oh shit!” Bucky sits bolt upright in bed. “I gotta get out of here!” He yanks back the covers and tries to swing himself out of bed.

“Whoa, hold on there.” Sam rests a hand on his shoulder. “What just happened?”

“My trailer! I didn’t lock up, I was just going out to grab a coffee--they’ll rob me blind!” 

The sudden burst of activity was a mistake. He’s successfully ignored how queasy he felt until now, but the combination of movement and agitation triggers the nausea and he starts to heave. He had a little water in his stomach; once that’s come up, it’s followed by yellow bile. It feels like he’s yarking up everything right down to his toenails.

“I just want to die,” he whispers when the spasms are over. A tear slides down his cheek.

Sam whisks the covers off the bed. The vomit hasn’t soaked through; he disappears again, returning with a nurse carrying fresh bedding.

“Don’t worry,” Sam consoles him while the nurse busily tucks the new sheet and blankets over him. “You want to give me the keys, I’ll go take care of your trailer. You just think good thoughts about yourself. You’ve made it this far, you can go the distance.”

Bucky swallows, and Sam’s right there with a cup of water. Brown eyes study him, concerned. He cares. Who’s the last person who cared about Bucky Barnes?

The tears come in earnest, then, and the words. 

Sam pulls up a chair and listens patiently as Bucky talks about getting deployed. About the patrol where it all went horribly wrong. How he’d still been in the hospital getting over pneumonia that set in during his recovery from the amputation when he got word his mom had died…of pneumonia. 

He’d been discharged and went home to Brooklyn, only to find out his dad had taken off for parts unknown after the funeral. 

“I heard from Steve,” he continues, staring at the waffle texture of the blue blanket covering him. “He was sorry to hear about my mom. His folks were both dead--he had to look after himself since he was, like, fifteen--and he ate with us more than he did anywhere else.

“He started doing caricatures at a traveling show after he dropped out of art school--he’s better without lessons than a lot of people ever are with--and he ended up out here, working at Stark’s. I had my dismemberment compensation and a little insurance from Ma. I came out here, bought the shooting gallery and my trailer….” His voice dies away. “More water, please?”

Sam obliges.

It’s difficult to talk about the carnival. At first, it was fun--not what he’d expected to do with his life, but interesting. Little by little, though, he’d become disenchanted with the greasy chow, the noise and crowds of strangers, coming home to a tin can on wheels. 

The one bright spot was Steve. His old friend had been sharing a trailer with three other guys when Bucky arrived, and Bucky was glad to have a familiar face to bunk with.

“We go way back,” he tells Sam. “He came out in eighth grade and he got picked on big time. I kicked a lot of ass, trying to keep him from getting killed. Got my ass handed to me a few times in the process. And after all that, he crucified me for one mistake. What a guy.”

“What happened?”

“There was this card game--” He explains, stressing that he doesn’t even remember doing what he apparently did. How Steve had gone off on him, ready to walk out to stay with his new boyfriend, and ratting him out to management on the way.

“You probably rationalized it,” Sam says with a nod. “You were going to pay it right back, no big deal. You didn’t plan on losing.”

“Right!” Bucky is relieved to hear someone who isn’t out-and-out condemning him. “I’m pretty sure the game was rigged.”

“Whether it was or not doesn’t matter. You were impaired--that means you weren’t demonstrating good judgement. Same principle as being incapable of giving consent while under the influence. The game might not have been crooked, but it sounds like they took advantage of your condition to clean you out. That’s sleazy.”

“That’s Clint. I was just taking advantage of the free booze.”

“Congratulations,” Sam retorts. “Was it worth it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I just wanted a few drinks and a good time. I ended up losing my best friend, my pitch--everything! I’ve been camping out at the damn Walmart for eight months because I’m hardly getting any money to live on…I can’t seem to save up enough for a deposit and lot rent at a park. And now this….if anything happens to that trailer, I’m going to wind up sleeping in a cardboard box under an overpass somewhere.”

“Give me your keys, and I’ll take care of it on my way home,” Sam tells him, standing and returning the chair to its original place.

“My stuff’s over there--” Bucky points.

The remains of Bucky’s clothes are in the closet across the room. Hanging from a hook is a clear plastic shopping bag, the kind the hospital uses to store patients’ possessions. A battered wallet, a handful of change and a ring of keys on a carabiner…. “These?”

“Yeah.” He looks anxious.

“I’ll come by tomorrow and let you know how it goes.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem, Bucky. Just concentrate on getting better.”

…


	12. It Takes One to Know One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paramedic Sam Wilson finds himself getting involved in Bucky's problems for the simple reason that he's been there himself. But it's probably not going to be that simple.

It’s worse than he thought. Sam looks around the interior of Bucky’s trailer and winces. No wonder the guy is so depressed. The place reeks. Nothing’s been cleaned in…months, probably.

All he’d promised to do was lock up, he reminds himself--but there’s no point in saving the guy’s life if he has to come back to this mess.

There’s no running water in the trailer, and Bucky’s been camping in it for eight months? That accounts for a lot of the smell, right there. B.O.--Bucky odor! And trash that hasn’t been taken out, plus whatever’s died in the fridge, and the toilet, which seriously needs to have the tank pumped….

Taking stock, he heads over to the Walmart for trash bags, scouring pads and a couple jugs of water. He asks around: As he suspected, the staff knows Bucky. He’s in and out all the time. They know that’s his truck and trailer parked out front, but no one’s given him a hard time about staying there because that would be a shitty thing to do to a disabled vet. 

“He’s never taken anything, and he doesn’t cause trouble. Worst he does is wash up in the men’s room, and he usually waits til the middle of the night to do that, so he doesn’t bother anyone.” That’s the manager, a baby-faced guy named Jeff. “I heard about the incident this morning. Are you from social services?”

“Not exactly. I was one of the paramedics at the scene.” 

Jeff nods. “God bless the work you do,” he says earnestly. “That poor guy. You can tell he’s struggling, but he’s friendly with everybody here. We just hope he’s going to be okay.”

“He’ll be away for a couple days. I just came by to make sure his place was secure.”

“I was planning to talk to him…I’ve bent the rules letting him stay for so long--it’s not like we’re a campground,” Jeff bites his lip. “And it’s not long-term RV storage, either. Is there any way to get it moved, even if it’s for a few days while he’s gone? My district manager is going to be here later this week, and he commented on it last time he was here. Bucky can come back, maybe next week--after the inspection is completed. I don’t have a problem with him, but I need this job.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Sam says, because it’s not an unreasonable request. And it’s probably best if Bucky is where Sam can easily check up on him. He doesn’t usually go to such lengths for his patients, but Bucky’s different. 

Sam contemplates the problem of what to do with Bucky’s home on wheels for the next couple hours while he sorts through the debris in the trailer and cleans. He knows he risks freaking Bucky out when he comes back and sees everything’s moved around, but it offends his sensibilities. No one should have to live like this. There’s not a clean dish in the place--it looks like what little solid food he’s had in recent weeks has come from the Golden Arches. Everything’s littered with old newspapers and empty junk food wrappers, like he just didn’t have the energy to pick them up from where they’d fallen. One trash bag end up being exclusively empty liquor bottles, which says a lot about the guy’s problem.

Since he knows firsthand that the clothes Bucky had on his morning are trashed, he gathers up what he can find, figuring he can run a load of laundry with what’s left. There’s not much--a couple pairs of jeans, a few tee shirts, a hoodie. There are socks, stump socks and briefs--the worst. He strips the sheets from the bunk and winces. Springs are poking through the cheap mattress. When he flips it over, the other side is even worse.

When he’s gotten the place to a state he considers marginally acceptable, Sam starts scrolling through his contact list. His first call is to a gal he dated in high school. “I need a favor,” he says, once they’ve gotten the social niceties out of the way. He explains about Bucky and the need for his trailer to be parked elsewhere for a few days.

“Sure, he can stay. There’s plenty of room out back,” she responds, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m happy to have him--there’s a guy I was seeing who’s being a pain in my behind.”

“I hope you’re not counting on him as a bodyguard. The guy’s in rough shape.”

“No, but if Rory sees someone else is living here, maybe he’ll stop screwing with me. Stuff keeps happening--things like mud on the patio furniture--at least, I think it was mud--a dead snake in my mailbox…I just hope your friend makes him think twice about coming around.”

“Thanks. I’m going to see if I can get some help getting the trailer over there. With luck, I’ll be there later this evening. See you then.”

Calling Bucky a friend might be overstating the case, but Sam feels compassion for a fellow vet. That episode in the ambulance, when Bucky panicked and asked if Sam could feel his hands and how many feet did he have…he’s been there himself. Sam rubs his shoulder reflexively. He can’t just let the guy sink. He can’t.

Next up is his cousin, who agrees to give him a hand with getting Sam back to his own vehicle after he’s relocated the trailer to its new roost.

Afterward, over beers, he explains it again. Erik, who served two tours before putting his computer degree to work, gets it. “No man left behind. Admirable, cuz. But what are you gonna do, baby-sit him until his liver gives out? ‘Cause that is one thankless job, let me tell you.”

Succumbing to the lure of Silicon Valley down the coast, Erik makes more money in a year creating video games than Sam will probably see in five. He’s obviously gotten a little cynical in the process.

“First off, I don’t want to see his home getting towed while he’s in the hospital. He couldn’t afford to get it out of impound--he’d wind up living in a box.”

Erik nods. “Long as he doesn’t drag you down with him. You gonna get the mayor involved?”

Their mutual cousin is the current mayor of Seaglass, California. He’s always been active in the community--if there’s anyone who could steer him to finding services for Bucky, it’s him. 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Sam muses. “Although it’s not like I don’t know anybody….”

“Like his mama?” Erik laughs. “Yeah, you should try Auntie--she always did have a soft spot for you, you little suck up, you. Lucky you, being the baby of the family.”

That again. “I wasn’t sucking up!” Sam protests. “She always had you two working for her, so if I wanted to hang out with you, the only way I could do that was to help so you’d get done sooner. And I’m not the baby of the family.”

“You were in those days.” His cousin is quiet for a moment, sipping from his glass. “What’s the real story here, Sammy? Did you guys know each other when you were in-country? Otherwise, why him? What is it about this guy?”

Sam sighs. “Ever hear the saying, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I’? It’s like that. When our chopper crashed, I freaked out on the way in to base. They had me strapped down on a back-board for transport. I couldn’t move. I came unglued. Even though I know a back-board is standard procedure if there’s even a possibility of spinal issues, I thought my neck was broken, and I lost it. Started hollering for my mama, screaming for Riley--I knew he was dead, but I hollered for him anyway--I was sure my life was over.”

Erik looks uncharacteristically moved. “I’m sorry, man. That’s intense.”

“Yeah, it was. Bucky had the same reaction today in the ambulance and it touched a nerve.” Sam stares at his hands. “I want to help him, if I can.”

“Look,” Erik says after a moment. “I’m not the hand-holding type. I’ll leave that up to you. I’m not a great humanitarian in general. I was a commando, and my job was killing people. Since then, I’d rather spend my time with computers. I’ve spent too much of my life dealing with ignorant fools who jump to uninformed conclusions--and I’m not allowed to shoot them. You hear me? But I’ve got a shit-ton of money. Let me know if your boy needs anything.”

Sam grins. “Oh, cuz. I’ve already got a list.”

“Course you do.”

“I was thinking I’d buy him some groceries--there’s literally nothing to eat in there. Poor nutrition contributes to bad decisions, you know? Some decent clothes--everything I’ve seen of his is rags…a new mattress and some bedding--nothing fancy, as long as the springs aren’t poking through it.”. 

“Uh-huh. And you were willing to do that on your own nickel?” At Sam’s nod, Erik shakes his head. “Five hundred cover it?”

“Definitely helps,” Sam says, surprised by his cousin’s generosity.

“Does he need tires, maybe a brake job? I know a guy…he owes me.”

“Probably.” Sam has no idea what shape the truck and trailer are in mechanically. He’d driven them across town with extreme caution by a series of roads less traveled, slow and careful because he wasn’t used to driving such a behemoth--and it wasn’t his behemoth. "I don't suppose you know anybody who could pump out the waste reservoir?"

“I might. Let me make a few calls. Meanwhile, get whatever else you think is necessary and keep the receipts. I’ll cover it for you.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“No prob, cuz. Thanks for the beer.”

…

**Author's Note:**

> All this sprang from the prompt "Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Small Business Owners in a Tourist Trap AU". This was originally a series of fluffy, interconnected tales of the Avengers as members of a seaside carnival. Then it started getting plotty. Now--let's just say that it's going to be long--and not overly fluffy. Enjoy....


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